


the realm of you

by fishydwarrows



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, also lowkey inspired by andromeda and perseus and the disney movie hercules, technically not an actual myth i just kind of made it up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows
Summary: I have no life but this,To lead it here;Nor any death, but lestDispelled from there;Nor tie to earths to come,Nor action new,Except through this extent,The realm of you.- Emily Dickinson





	the realm of you

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this beginning at 3:30 am in the morning, which seems to be a trend for my TSOA fics. Also the other day I watched the movie Troy (2004) and was so enraged at it that I reread TSOA and also inadvertently wrote this fic. But hey! more content, so who's complaining.

The sky is black, pin pricked only with stars, and I am alone in the garden of my home. My father prefers it so. Leaving me behind as he likes, as if to hide away and escape the troubled words, the secret stares. I am no stranger to it; their looks are almost always upon me. They say: _That poor boy._ They say: _What a shame about his mother._ They say: _Will he end up as her, do you think?_ As if I am not in front of them.

 

I sit in the garden of my home. It is large and the walls reach high, higher than the home itself. _It is like a prison._ I think. But one I am tied to in blood. It is dark. I settle on my knees and begin picking flowers. A tribute to my mother. A comfort for no one but myself. Then, there is a sound, the soft thump of descension. The hair raises upon my neck, it has come at last: not the ceremony I have come to expect, but a quiet rush, here in the lowering of the sun. I brace myself for the cut of cool metal, the pull and tear at the delicate muscles of my neck.

 

None comes.

 

I blink in surprise, the flowers dribbling their waters down my wrists and drying onto my tunic. A tunic, that still rises and falls with breath and life. _Would it not be so terrible for it to end all the same?_ I think. I kneel in the dirt of the garden, silent.

 

A rustling, then; a muffled sound like a woven ball, bouncing on the dirt. I do not turn around. Perhaps whoever has come is gathering their courage. I am not surprised if it is because of that. I know, death is not pleasant to witness.

 

“Go ahead,” I say. I am almost shocked at how toneless my voice is. I am too used to this. “Ahead with what?” A voice asks. I do not yield, I do not turn. “You know why you’re here.” I say. The voice is not my own, bitter, tired, worn. “I came to see the garden.” They say; there is no hesitation. I stare at the flowers in my hands. “The garden.” My words are an echo of his own. _Not me._ I think, almost giddily. _He is not here for me._

 

There is a silence, punctured only by our breathing. I hear the boy shuffle his feet. I can tell he is; a boy. His voice is pitched like mine, but higher and steadier.

 

“See then.” I say. “The garden.” I cannot tell what he does.

 

“Why?” He asks.

 

I drop the flowers at last. My hands ooze with their sweetness.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why do you continue to look away?” My cheeks flush with shame, and I feel myself frown, defeated. “I fear it.” I hear him move, it is a solid noise. I can imagine this boy behind me, his body solid and stout, with his blunt questions, his honest tone.

 

“Fear what?” I look up at the sky, away from him; I am not supposed to speak of it, but this stranger in an odd way, gives me comfort. _Maybe I will be alright._ I think, grasping to the barest of hope. _Maybe._ “I fear the curse upon me.” I can feel him looking over my shoulder, at the flowers in my lap, the dirt on my knees. “A curse?” His voice is light, almost disbelieving. I almost hate him for it.

 

“Yes.” I bite. “Yes, a curse. There is a doom upon me, from the moment of my birth to death it will remain. Any I love will be struck by the Gods. They will be assaulted by visions and torments of horror, and I will remain alone. Then, my other half, my soul, will come. At last, I will love unbridled, and when I realize that love, I will be torn from the earth and thrown to the Underworld. One last punishment upon me!” My voice is bitter and my voice is hoarse. I am not used to speaking so long, alone as I am. Unbidden, a tear pearls, but I will not move. I will not look upon anyone with love in my eye. I am not so cruel.

 

“Why?” His voice is curious. Not pitying, not cruel. I almost laugh. Everything is now an almost.

 

“My father conspired to steal away one of the daughters of Apollo. And when he did not succeed...” I laugh now, it is a harsh sound. “I am their revenge.” I shrug. I am weary, tired of being on my knees, of the night air, of this honest boy.

 

“That is not fair.” He states it like it is the unfathomable truth.

 

I close my eyes.

 

“The Gods are never fair.”

 

There is a moving sound, I feel his warmth leave me at once. I had not noticed how close he was. The air is still, and I almost convince myself he has left. But, he has not. I can hear his breath. I stare at the wall before me, waiting.

 

“You are wrong.” He says.

 

Then, I am alone.

 

-

 

I move throughout my days like one half drowned, suffocating but not near death. Not yet. Ever my mind turns back to the boy. I do not know who he was. A visitor, perhaps, to the palace. A serving boy. A shade, something conjured, to open my heart and let poison seep in. I do not know. I do not wish to meet him again. I worry about what will happen if I do.

 

A year passes. Two. I do not look for him, and do not forget him. I am outside the palace. A rare occurrence, as my father often keeps me shut away. To seal me in and prevent the harm I might bring. I sit in the lone tree by our garden wall. It is high, higher than the garden wall itself. _That is how he got in._ I think. _He must be lithe and nimble._ I am only able to climb half of the thing.

 

I stare at the sky and contemplate what to do with my time. Will I climb down and go back inside? No, I wish to remain. The sky is far and almost domed. I want to trace the line of clouds far off; I want to shake my fist at the Gods and cry “Why!”

 

I do none of those things.

 

I only sit, and swing my legs from the tree.

 

A voice shakes me from my thoughts:

 

“You are taller.”

 

His voice is lower than before, melodious and sweet. I recognize it at once.

 

“I am in a tree.” I say. “Why should I not be taller?”

 

“Your legs are longer. That is what I mean. Or maybe the same, I cannot tell.”

 

I look up at the sky, resisting the urge to glance down, to see him. This boy who has claimed my thoughts for two years. “Will you not look at me?” He asks. His voice is soft and controlled.

 

“I will not.” I say. _Though I long to_ . I think. The tree is rough beneath my hands, and I look out to the grassy plains of my father’s land. So barren, so empty. _Why have you come again?_ I think. _Did I summon you? A personal torment?_

 

“May I look at you?” I hear him ask. He sounds near, perhaps the base of the tree.

 

“I don’t know.” I say. “I don’t know what will happen if we seen each other.”

 

The breeze whips past my ears, making small, howling noises about my head. I wait in silence as the boy below thinks. “I will come up.” He says, already I hear the scuff of sandle, the scratch of a hand. He closes the distance quickly and I think: _I was right. He is lithe. He is nimble. He is here._ He shuffles close to my branch and stills. His breath is even, unexcited, unbothered.

 

“Your name.”

 

“What?”

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Patroclus.”

 

“And I…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I am Achilles. It is alright.”

 

“Alright?”

 

“Yes, alright.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It will not hurt you to look.”

 

“You cannot be certain.”

 

“I am certain.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“Alright.”

 

The world seems to hold its breath.

 

I look at him.

 

And I feel the exhale.

 

Achilles’ face is like a star, bright and beautiful. His gaze does not waver and it takes my breath away. His eyes are a deep green, like rain-fresh grass, and within I see flecks of the finest gold. His hair is gold and almost seems to shine in the midday light. His face is rounded but there is a sharpness to his jaw, a smoothness to his chin, a straightness to his nose. I am entranced by it all. It has been so long since I have seen a true face. I wish to touch it, memorize it before it is gone again.

 

He leans against the tall trunk of the tree and studies me. I do not know what he sees. I have seen my own image only sparsely, so afeared my father is of I seeing someone through a mirror that he bans them from our halls. Yet I know what I look like. Slender, brown. My hair curls and waves, undecided and short. My eyes are too large, they blink and bat owlishly. I do not believe myself ugly, but I am no beauty.

 

Achilles hums and reaches a hand to my cheek. I am too startled even to react. He brings my face close to his own. I can feel his breath on my brow, his hands on my cheeks, his eyes on my face. Then, it is over, and I am released from his grasp. I feel the sudden absence like a long fall. The rush, the impact. I have the strangest urge to laugh, to shrug away this sudden intimacy. But I do not.

 

-

 

He returns after that. We plan together, our means of meeting, our secret ways, our hidden chambers. It is the strangest thing, to have a companion. We are almost men and yet we remain children. Gaily we run and swim and climb together.

 

I live to look upon Achilles’ face. It is like marble, smooth and solid. I know nothing of his family, he speaks little of them. Yet I find myself ever searching his figure, searching for some hint of recognition, so indication of his background. I am hungry for him. Him and what made him. I wish to know how someone could make so beautiful a thing. A living star.

 

In the night we speak of many things. The histories of the stars and the rumors of the world. We conspire to write plays, build boats, fight battles, together. Patroclus. He says. _Pa-tro-clus_.

 

My name is smooth on his lips, not the clumsy murmurs from the palace, but something bright, something whole. He calls me by name and whispers of the things he has seen from the outside: the long grass, the salt brimmed sea, the low mountains. I dreamt of such places, using only my mind as a map and my books as a guide. With him, the images are coloured and real. Brought to life by his presence.

 

The years pass, and we grow into men. Yet I am still confined to the palace, my father’s grip will not lessen. I stand on the precipice of memory.  It is late at night and we lay on the ground. I cannot hold back the flows of my grief, my history.

 

I tell him of my mother.

 

She was simple, they said. Too simple to see the danger of marrying a man who had wronged the Gods, but she did so. She clung to him, my father, like a babe. When she was pregnant, when I was born. She stayed by his side. The Gods were displeased. _How dare he find happiness. How dare he when he has tormented our daughters._ Apollo cursed my mother, and I for good measure. The moment we truly loved, we would perish. When I was six, my mother died. I do not know if it was my father she loved. I believe there was affection, but love? No. In my childhood, I loved my nurses, but the curse descended upon them and one by one they fell to madness and death. I was left alone. Those in the palace covered their faces and spoke little to me, fearing somehow that I would drive them mad or something between them and I would spark and I would grow ill and perish.

 

“And that is the whole truth of it.” I say. “I cannot be with another. It would be the death of us both.”

 

Achilles frowns.

 

“Yet you are with me.”

 

“Perhaps Apollo has forgotten his curse.”

 

I shrug.

 

I am tired and the moon hangs in the dark. It is much too late for me to think of such things clearly.

 

“Perhaps…” Achilles says. I sit up from beside him. He lays and looks up at the vaulted ceiling. “Perhaps…” He repeats.

 

It goes on like this. We speak and he will notice something, a change in me, a new feature maybe. I am not so shy as I once was. He watches me and I feel the heat of his eyes on my skin, almost palpable. I turn and look back. I do not fear it anymore.

 

I yearn for him now. Before, his absence has been a hollowness in my heart, a loss I could bear. I feel him now with each parting, like a deep gash. Some knife has come at last to rend my heart from my chest and silence it.

 

We are in the garden. _Sometimes_ . I think. _Sometimes I think he is perhaps a God_. I have seen other people, though few, and they do not move like him. They do not know the earth beneath their feet like an old friend. They stutter and slip and fall, as I do. He does not. The garden is bright and my heart thumps like a drum. His head rests on my shoulder and he plucks lazily on a lyre. The peace is something I have never felt. He pauses in his strumming and looks to me, smiling.

 

It is more dazzling than the sun.

 

“Oh.”

 

I realize it at last.

 

I feel a seizing in my heart and the world shakes.

 

I plunge into darkness.

 

-

 

I see, but do not see. I feel, but do not feel. Hear, but do not. Achilles cradles my body, calling my name. “Patroclus!” He cries. “Patroclus!” I reach for him, to give comfort. But I cannot.

 

The world is grey except for him and I am forced to watch him mourn. He kisses my head and I can almost imagine the feel of it. Almost. The noises he makes over me are almost animal. A high pitched wine, a desolate sound. He clutches me close and breathes deep. When his head rises, his eyes are like fire.

 

_Achilles._ I begin. _Achilles, wait for me!_ I wish to say. But there is a tugging on my back, and I am pulled from him.

 

-

 

I am drifting in a sea, and the world is grey. I cannot say how long it is. My life moves before me like a parody of a play. I am alone, and alone, and alone. Then, in the black night: the stars come out. He is with me, laughing and singing. Smiling and soft.

 

_Achilles._ I rasp. Though I have no breath with which to do so.

 

_Achilles._

 

His beauty and his grace. His mischief, his eyes. This and this and this. I am marveled by it all. Humbled by his shade, basking in his memory. In my mind he reaches out his hand. Mesmerized, I take it. The hand is strong and olive skinned, a clever trick. It tightens on mine. I am struck dumb, only able to grasp and be pulled up, up, up.

 

He crushes me to him and the smell of him surrounds me. I am only able to feel, to touch. My eyes are clenched shut. I wish to hold him to me forever. My love for Achilles swells and holds no bounds. I feel his breath against me, his chest, solid and welcome.

 

“You can look.” He whispers. His voice holds the sound of unshed tears. My heart burns in my chest.

 

I look.

 

His face is like the sun, blinding and beautiful.

 

I crush my lips against his and cry out in gladness.

 

I am free of my doom.

 

I know it when I look into his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> For more content check out my tumblr @fishfingersandscarves or my twitter @wow__then
> 
> Please comment if you enjoyed the fic! I'd really appreciate the feedback!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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